Episode 7
“Why bring that up all of a sudden?”
Arabell questioned why Prima was reviving such an antiquated tale. Rather than respond directly, Prima tossed another cryptic riddle her way.
“You know what story lies at the root of that malformed curse, don’t you? That curse.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Do you really think you can feign ignorance? You, of all people? You’re a dragon who can see through all truths and lies. I’m talking about the story that defines who we are.”
Prima pressed Arabell with deliberate force, almost as though she had made up her mind to corner her. With a tenacity that suggested she’d force the memory back one way or another, Arabell eventually conceded.
“…So you’re saying you gave her the orb? Just so she’d remember even that ancient past? Honestly… you really are determined to torment her.”
“Torment? No, I’m giving her a chance to end it all. Who knows—maybe this time, the curse will truly be broken.”
Prima shrugged nonchalantly. But Arabell was skeptical. She didn’t believe Limenia—no, the human vessel known as Lobelia—could possibly withstand the full weight of such memories. If she was once a dragon, she would, without a doubt, make the same choice as before.
“Don’t assume that everything will fall into place just because Limenia is Ignis reborn, Prima. The time span we’re dealing with is far too vast. She can’t bear it—not now. She’ll make the same decision again. She’ll sacrifice her life, just like before. And you, despite seeing it all with your prophetic eyes—how can you knowingly drive her into ruin?”
A long, long time ago—
The primordial god Prisia, who created the land, the sky, the waters, the fire, and all living creatures, began to grow bored. Gazing down from the highest heavens at the petty, insignificant humans and beasts he had created, he grew weary of the monotonous cycle of repetition.
“I’ve made things inferior to me. This time, I’ll create something equal to myself.”
Perhaps Prisia simply wanted a companion—something akin to himself. So, he hurled a colossal flame imbued with divine authority onto the highest mountain. From that fire, the first dragon, Ignis, was born. Ignis was as immense as Prisia, possessed power equal to his, and loved humanity just as deeply.
Perhaps, after all, two were better than one. Prisia and Ignis enjoyed a harmonious existence for a time—punishing sinful mortals, blessing the righteous.
But after ages of companionship, Prisia began to feel something strange stirring within him. Every time he looked at Ignis, his chest would ache, throb with pain.
Eventually, Prisia realized what mortals called this feeling—love.
He had fashioned humans in his own image, modeling their forms after his own. And observing them, he saw their behavior when in love mirrored what he now experienced.
“I love Ignis.”
Having realized his feelings, Prisia confessed immediately: “I love you. When I see you, my heart races. I feel joy.”
To which Ignis responded:
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Only then did Prisia realize his oversight—he had not endowed Ignis with emotions.
“That’s a feeling I don’t possess, so I can’t reciprocate, Prisia.”
“What if I gave you emotions? Then could you accept my love?”
“…Very well, I’ll try.”
Ignis agreed, though he didn’t understand what emotions were. But Prisia had never given him anything harmful before, so he accepted, unaware of the peril inherent in feelings.
Just like when humans first encountered fire—drawn by its beautiful glow, they reached out and were burned. Only then did they understand its heat.
So Prisia granted Ignis the emotion of love, hoping he would love him back. But what Prisia didn’t anticipate was that love, like a stone dropped into still water, would ripple outward, birthing countless other emotions—anger, fear, joy, sorrow, curiosity, disgust, shame—and that this love might one day turn toward someone else entirely.
The moment Ignis first experienced emotion, his life was irrevocably transformed.
Previously, he hadn’t fully grasped Prisia’s decisions. He occasionally immersed himself in the human world too deeply, wept inexplicably, or contorted his face and shouted when punishing wrongdoers, not understanding why. He didn’t even truly comprehend why humans were punished or blessed.
But once he gained emotion, he began to understand.
He wept at orphaned beasts crying out for their mothers. He smiled at children running joyously through fields. His heart thundered in his chest—so fiercely, he thought it might burst. Overwhelmed, he transformed into a human form and sprinted across a vast meadow, trying to escape the feeling.
Yet no matter how far he ran, the strange sensation intensified. Confused and breathless, Ignis collapsed into a patch of grass, gazing up at the sky.
“Are you dead?”
A stranger’s face suddenly appeared in his line of sight. Ignis sat up and looked at him—a man with hair dark as the night sky and eyes the deep hue of the sea.
“Thank goodness, you’re alive. Why were you running like that across the plains?”
“Who are you?”
In response, the man calmly seated himself beside Ignis and introduced himself.
“I am Prince Richard of the Kingdom of Oraison. And you, stranger, who runs through my kingdom—who are you?”
“I am a dragon. Ignis, the dragon. My body felt strange, so I descended in human form and began to run.”
Hearing “dragon,” the prince quickly showed due reverence. His kingdom was devout, offering tributes yearly to the temples of both Prisia and Ignis.
Prince Richard believed Ignis at once—not only because of his glowing white hair and eyes like emerald forests, but because of the innate nobility that radiated from him.
“O great dragon…”
“Just call me Ignis. I like names.”
“Very well, Ignis. You say your body feels strange—how so?”
“Would you even understand if I told you? You’re a mere human. What help could you possibly offer me?”
Ignis wasn’t mocking; he truly believed this. Richard accepted it as fact.
But after thinking for a moment, Ignis reconsidered.
“Then again, you might understand this better than I do.”
Though he saw humans as lesser beings, he acknowledged that when it came to emotions, this man might be more experienced. So Ignis described his symptoms—the feelings Prisia had given him, the ones he had recently discovered, and now this entirely new, unfamiliar one.
“My heart was pounding—so hard I thought it’d leap out of my chest. I couldn’t stay still. It wasn’t anger or sadness. It felt joyful, but different from any joy I’ve ever known.”
Richard, listening intently, let out a laugh.
“In human terms, we call that being overwhelmed—with joy or emotion.”
“Overwhelmed?”
“It’s when you’re so moved or happy that you feel full to bursting.”
“I know joy, but what is being moved? What does full to bursting mean?”
“Are there really things even a dragon doesn’t know? I thought you were omniscient.”
“Knowing everything isn’t the same as understanding feelings. Emotions are… uniquely difficult. They’re fickle and complex. When I’m happy, it’s wonderful. But when I’m angry—it’s dreadful. I’m starting to wonder if accepting Prisia’s gift was a mistake.”
As Ignis said this, he stared intently at the prince.
“You’re quite beautiful. I like your face.”
Those deep navy eyes stirred something unfamiliar in Ignis. Dragons don’t suffer indigestion or nausea, so the churning in her chest must surely be an emotion.
She just couldn’t yet name it. But one thing was clear—it was far from unpleasant.
